


Defiance and Other Stories

by Tat_Tat



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Cock Rings, Dirty Talk, F/M, Gags, Rough Sex, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-15 07:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3439073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tat_Tat/pseuds/Tat_Tat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Pacifica's parents are away, she and Dipper trash the Northwest Manor. (Includes several NSFW Dippica one-shots.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

An empty mansion is an unsupervised mansion. She understands this now, and finds herself looking forward to her parents' absences. She still feels the sharp tang of neglect, and she wishes her family was different, but she's accepted that the only thing that will change about them is her mother's face.

They won't change. They won't grow. Just as she refuses to remain stagnant and selfish.

She dismisses the servants tonight, leaving only one of them on call. It's for this reason that she keeps close to the door as she waits.

She flies from her seat at the fireplace when the doorbell rings, echoing throughout the mansion. She nearly slips on the marble floor, the taxidermy bear catching her mid-fall.

"Just a minute!" she calls, catching her balance, now jogging carefully.

She opens the door to Dipper waiting on the other side, sloppily dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, a bag slung over his shoulder. She can only imagine what is inside the bag and smiles, pulling him inside.

The door is barely closed behind them when she jumps into his arms, hugging him tightly. And then, kissing him hungrily. Dipper tries to keep up with her, dropping the bag and locking the door he’s pressed against. He moans as she presses herself against him. She’s not wearing panties. Very quickly she unzips his pants, fishes out his erection and presses herself against him.

"Pacifica," Dipper groans.

Her teeth graze the hollow of his throat. “Fuck me.” 

She bites down and it awakens something in him. He takes her by the wrist and swiftly brings her to the floor. Her parent’s favorite carpet softens the fall. She looks at him over her shoulder, eyes glazed with an intense longing. It’s more than lust and affection. It’s a need. A need to do everything wrong. Everything.

The carpet is already decorated with grass stains and mud from Dipper’s shoes. Now, she’s soaked it through with her excitement. Dipper promises that they’re only getting started and enters her effortlessly. She tightens around him, whimpering, moving against his thrusts.

She’s insatiable. First the parlor room, and then that sitting room that no one actually sits in. He presses her against the couch cushions with abandon, and she hopes they stain the couch and that cruddy throw blanket her mother adores so much.

The dishes are knocked aside in favor of accommodating her body on the kitchen counter. She holds onto the metal beam of the hanging pot rack, rustling the pots and pans. They make such a clatter that it covers up her screams as she comes and comes again.

Somewhere in-between the kitchen and her father’s walk-in closet they pass out. Her father’s best ties are strewn all over the floor when they both wake. She smirks, coming up with an idea. She ties a perfect windsor knot around Dipper’s cock and balls. He gasps at the new sensation and nearly loses his mind when she rests in his lap like a queen on her throne. He begs her to let him come; the makeshift cock-ring and her own tightness makes him feel like he’ll burst any second.

“Only when I’m finished,” she says, gloating. She soaks in that wide-eyed look; he's on the brink of despair, unsure if he can hold on that long.

She does finish, but doesn’t let him come. She wants more. 

“Just a little longer,” she promises with a sly smile.

She leads him out of the darkness of the walk-in closet and they wander the halls. Occasionally they stop and she lets him inside her. Once, he pushes her against the windowpane and she allows it-- up until she feels him twitch, close to orgasm.

“Be patient,” she chides.

The room they wander into is a gallery. It’s the complete opposite of the hidden room they found years ago at the party. That room was dusty and hid dirty affairs. This room is pristine, and it shines, too bright and good to be true. The paintings all depict positive achievements, falsely commissioned from the artists.

Pacifica pulls the knot loose. Dipper hisses under his breath and takes her on the floor. His palms press against her backside as he pounds her relentlessly.

She spreads her legs and tilts her hips so he can can reach deeper inside her. Her forehead is pressed against the floor and whispered urgencies leave her lips. 

“Oh god oh god. Make me come again--”

His calloused fingers thread through her long blonde hair and grip a handful, pulling her face upwards so she is facing the rows of paintings staring down at them: her ancestors with their fake smiles drawn too far back over their teeth, their shifty-eyed gazes, the deceit painted so blatantly. Pacifica’s cheeks burn a bit from the humiliation, then a thought crosses her mind and draws a smile more sinister than the ones surrounding them.

She can be better. She will be better than them. She already is and she doesn’t care what they think. They can just deal with the stained carpets and furniture, the shattered dishes, and neckties scattered on the floor. They can all deal with her choices in men, and her ethical approaches. And they can deal with Dipper fucking her in their sorry excuse of a trophy room and they will smile on, unable to do a damn thing about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is crack. I told a friend I was trying to find a good soundtrack to write porn to. They suggested this:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=18ljLPZEfjs  
> Thus this drabble was born.

Pacifica answered the door.

"Someone order a meat-lover's pizza?"

On the other side of the door, a young man stood, dressed in a red, wrinkled, pizza delivery uniform. 

"Dipper?" 

Pacifica stared. To be honest she wasn't surprised to see him as a delivery boy. No. What made her stare in awe was the burly mustache on the his upper lip. She bit her lip, nervously taking the pizza. Did it just get hot in here, or was it just the seventies music suddenly playing on the radio?

Dipper's eyes flitted between Pacifica, the pizza, and the radio. The music felt oddly familiar to him though he couldn't place his finger on it. 

"Uh. . . this is the part where you pay me," he helpfully suggested.

"R-Right!" Pacifica laughed, fanning herself with the pizza box.

"Er... I don't mean to be rude, but you're going to ruin the pizza that way."

Embarrassed, she suddenly dropped the box-- and her panties. She bent over to pick it up, and was pleased to watch Dipper's eyes grow as big as dinner plates watching her ass.

"I actually can't pay for the pizza. . . not with real money," she purred over her shoulder.

Dipper knit his brows, glancing at the mansion interior. The roaring fireplace, the bearskin rug, and family portraits. "Doesn't look like you can't afford it."

"Are you sure?" Pacifica pouted.

"Pretty sure," he said, eyes resting on the diamond necklace the size of Texas that framed her cleavage. 

Dipper swallowed hard, beginning to recognize their situation. "Pacifica!" 

He took her by the shoulders, shaking her. "You have to snap out of it."

Pacifica grinned, ripping the front of his shirt, revealing a chest full of hair. 

"Pacifica. This isn't real. We're. . . I think we're in a seventies porno coma dream. Or is it dimension?" He reached in his shirt for the journal but it was oddly absent. His throat tightened in panic. 

Oh no. . . what if we're stuck here forever??? he thought, then Pacifica ripped her dress off like it was papier-mâché, her breasts spilling out. A light shone over them, complete with a chorus from the heavens above. Her bush was as magnificent as her breasts, and rivaled his mustache by sheer volume. 

She arched an eyebrow at him. 

"Okay, maybe this isn't a bad thing," Dipper said, pulling the door closed behind them.


	3. Swallow your pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon lured me into writing a thing.

Pacifica shakes. She cannot move her legs.

Both of her legs, lithe and long, are tied back on themselves, her heels resting against the curve of her ass. Her bound legs are spread open. She wants to close them because she’s so open and vulnerable, but they are tied in place with the ropes tied to the bed posts. She is balanced on the edge of the bed, spread wide open and naked and she wants to move, but she can’t. 

She protests against the ballgag because she’s embarrassed. She remembers that once she sat like this because she was bored and tired of waiting at a dull dinner party. Her mother had pulled her aside, crisply reminding her that ladies don’t sit with their legs spread wide and open, revealing everything. Only sluts do that. “Are you a slut?”

“Well, are you?” Dipper’s breath is warm against her thigh. She imagines him bringing his mouth closer, his tongue darting across her clit, his teeth gently nibbling the vulva lips. He places a hand on her hip, and she remembers the way his fingers can delve inside her. She tightens thinking about it, warmth building up in her abdomen, running up her chest, and making her flush. 

His lips brush below her hip, teasing her. “I’m not going to do anything if you don’t answer me,” he says firmly, smirking up at her. 

She glares at him, flushed with anger, arousal, and shame. She’s a lady but he knows just how to bring her down to his level. He treats her like she’s normal: like she’s not rich or the most popular woman in town. And that frustrates her. It scares her that she has no power over him. 

His dark eyes look over her, taking in all her secrets, and she struggles to swallow behind the gag. 

She wants to answer him-- and she will. But not without putting up a fight first. Not without tears in her eyes and drool pooling from her mouth, running down her chin, then down her neck. She will fight-- because that’s what Northwests do-- until she breaks and becomes nothing, her pride spent.

“Well then,” Dipper says after watching her struggle. “Are you?”

Pacifica’s head, hung down, raises and she slowly nods, biting down on the gag. As promised, Dipper leans forward, dragging his tongue along her slit from bottom to top. He pulls away and licks his lips, looking her over, eyes dancing with mirth. He’s still teasing her. It makes her want to scream.


End file.
